by W. C. Ryan
‘And now we’re left here, Billy and I. We’ll be like the house, slowly falling into ruin, getting older and more threadbare. There’ll be no French admirers, only bailiffs and rats in the kitchen and begging for money from Uncle John to keep the walls half standing. And the people around here will hate us because we will represent a past they would rather not remember. Or, worse still, they will pity us.’
Without thinking, he walks over and places a hand on her shoulder. She covers it with her own and then, without another word, she straightens herself and walks quickly from the room.
Harkin stands looking out at the sea and the barren rocky shore across the bay. It is a hard beauty. It is the type of place a man might end up when he has looked everywhere else for whatever it is that he seeks and discovers there is nowhere else to go. Perhaps that was how the original Prendevilles found it.
He has not noticed it before but, in the corner of one of the panes of glass someone – he presumes Maud – has etched her initials and a date. M.J.A.P, 4th February, 1911. He reaches out a finger to run it along the chipped, overpainted putty that holds the glass inside the window frame. He can feel it shift under his touch. One more gust of wind might be enough and then Maud’s mark will be gone.
He takes a step back, noticing how the wallpaper underneath the window frame is peeling away and that the ceiling above him is stained by damp in several places. Even Maud’s chair sags, although he imagines it might still be quite comfortable. Perhaps that’s it. This house, for all its faults and decrepitude, is always going to be comfortable for the Prendevilles. Otherwise he cannot for the life of him understand why an intelligent person like Charlie Prendeville – or, for that matter, Billy – feels tied to the place. Here, they still have stature; they have their ascendancy friends and family and a place in their faded parade. Or perhaps they feel that nowhere else will have them, at least not on terms they could accept. And then there are the Prendevilles that came before them, and the house that contained them . . . and what would come of it if the last of the living left?
Harkin dresses slowly and as he does so, he contemplates the davenport desk. It has a high base and sits flat to the ground rather than on wheels, as is more usual. It occurs to him that if the base were hollow, and it is very unlikely to be a solid piece of wood, there could be a void within it. He fetches the key from where he placed it underneath the pillow and unlocks the lowest drawer, this time pulling it all the way out and placing it to one side. He peers inside, hoping to see a space within, but if there is, it is sealed by three wooden planks, on top of which the drawer must rest.
He is about to replace the drawer when he notices there is a small gap between the middle plank and the others. The plank is thin, and when he gets a fingernail underneath it, it lifts and beneath there is a space. He breathes out slowly and reaches inside.
His hand brings out, first, a ribboned stack of letters and, then, a small black automatic that fits neatly into his hand. A pocket pistol. Just like the one the doctor said was used to kill Maud.
The gun is an evil little thing, made by a French manufacturer. There is a date on the barrel – 1920 – and it appears, as the date suggests, brand new. He turns it over in his hand, feeling the weight of it, then pulls out the magazine to reveal four shiny .25 calibre bullets, a match for the one Hegarty showed him. It can’t be the gun that killed Maud but it poses some interesting questions, not least of which is that Maud may have thought she needed it for protection.
Harkin considers whether to return it to the cavity, but remembers the way Maud had looked in the direction of the small writing desk. Perhaps he can consider it a gift of sorts and, having made his decision, he finds its weight in his pocket reassuring.
He turns his attention to the letters and immediately realises that they are of an intimate nature. They are not dated and there is no postmark or stamp. He skims the first.
My beloved Maud,
He skips through the banal endearments, a little embarrassed, until he comes to the last paragraph.
The barrier that stands between us exists only in your mind. If you will trust me, and we take our courage in our hands, then we can be together forever in a place where we will not be judged, or even remembered.
With all my love
Sean
Harkin can hear Charlie Prendeville’s quick steps clip across the marble floor below and then begin to climb the stairs, but he does not move from his position. It is only when she is on the landing itself that he hurriedly replaces the bundle of letters and then the drawer, keeping only the letter which he has just read. He stands so quickly that he feels unsteady, his vision temporarily blurred, but he takes the few steps to the window, leaning on its frame for support. There is a knock on the door.
‘Are you decent, Tom?’
‘I think so,’ he says, and hears her open the door.
‘I am sorry about earlier,’ she says with a tight smile.
‘Not at all. She was your sister. You’re allowed to grieve for her. We’re all grieving for her.’
‘Are you quite all right?’ she asks. ‘Your face is very pale.’
‘Is it?’ he says. ‘I’m sorry.’
She smiles at him, and he can see a trace of embarrassment.
‘I shouldn’t have disturbed you. Only Sean Driscoll heard you were up and, seeing as Dr Hegarty said you should take some exercise, he’s asking if you might like to take a jaunt along the coast a little. One of your colleagues is staying at Moira Wilson’s and would like to see you.’
Harkin has to think for a moment – this comes as such a surprise.
‘And when would this be? This jaunt,’ Harkin says, curious as to who this colleague might be.
‘Sean is putting a horse to the buggy as we speak.’
‘I’ll be down directly.’
CHAPTER 25
C
harlie insists that Harkin take a thick travel blanket for the journey and, although he does his best to reject the kindness, by the time Driscoll has guided them out from the shelter offered by the house, and the buggy is exposed to the icy wind from the sea, he is grateful for it. He wraps it tight around his legs and lifts the collar of his coat, feeling the skin on his face tauten in the chill.
‘It’s fresh enough,’ Driscoll says, seeing how Harkin is huddling into himself.
‘It’s bloody freezing is what it is.’
Driscoll chuckles, his gloved hands flicking the traces at the black horse’s back. The buggy creaks and sways on the uneven surface.
‘Anyway, you’ll soon be out of this. GHQ have sent a man down for you. He’s waiting for you at Wilson’s.’
Harkin doesn’t say anything for a moment, wondering who the boss has sent down, and what it might mean.
‘What kind of a man?’
‘A big man. He drove down in a motor car.’ Driscoll looks at Harkin. ‘It wasn’t me as let them know. About you at the funeral.’
‘I know,’ Harkin says. ‘It was Hegarty trying to get a hold of my doctor.’
In fact, if his visitor is who he thinks it is, then he has reason to be grateful to Hegarty. Although Driscoll, it occurs to him, may not.
‘Did he mention his name, this visitor of mine? Might it be a Mr Bourke?’
‘I think that was his name,’ Driscoll replies. ‘Looks like a prizefighter. Hands like shovels.’
Which sounds exactly like Vincent Bourke.
They travel in silence, while Harkin puts his thoughts in order. The journey is an opportunity for him to calculate the distance from the house to the gate, and the time it might take a man to walk it, and he thinks that it is a walk that could be made in a couple of minutes – faster if a man ran. Enough time for Driscoll, who arrived several minutes after the single shot, to have fired it. And then he is reminded about the letters. And the child Maud Prendeville was carrying inside her when she died.
‘Did Maud know about you?’
Harkin detects his sudden distaste for Dr
iscoll in his tone. He makes a note not to show it again. He must play this very carefully.
‘You mean about my being a Volunteer?’ Driscoll says, giving him a sideways glance. Before Harkin can reply, Driscoll continues. ‘We never discussed it, if that’s what you mean. I was only discharged in June 1919 and she was no longer active by then – down here, at least. I didn’t tell her when I took the oath because I thought I should keep my involvement quiet, as regards the Prendevilles at least. She may have known anyway. She knew a lot of the local Sinn Fein and Volunteers from before. They might have mentioned it to her, but she never heard it from me.’
‘But you were close?’ Harkin allows himself the slight emphasis on the final word to see what kind of reaction it might provoke.
Driscoll involuntarily tugs at the traces and the horse comes to a half-halt before Driscoll urges it forwards once again. When he speaks, he sounds guarded.
‘How do you mean close?’
Harkin feels his irritation bubbling up, despite his best intentions.
‘What do you think I mean? Were you friendly with her? Would you say you were good friends?’
Driscoll takes a moment to respond, and Harkin can see confusion and also anger in his expression, despite his efforts to maintain a neutral facade.
‘I knew Maud Prendeville all my life. We got on well enough. There was a distance, of course. I was born to a servant in this house, and so that’s what I’ll always be to the Prendevilles. So I wouldn’t say we were close. No, not close.’
Harkin knows he’s right about the distance but, then again, surely the letter to Maud had referred to this very issue.
‘There’s a barrier, would you say?’ This time Harkin manages to keep his voice clear of any emotion.
‘That’s exactly what I’d say.’
There’s a thick vein visible on Driscoll’s jawline that wasn’t there a few moments ago, and a bitter thinness to his mouth that Harkin suspects might match his own. He takes a slow breath.
‘Look,’ Harkin says, deciding to try a different tack, ‘I’m sorry. I’m a bit out of sorts.’
Driscoll seems to relax a little.
‘You don’t look the best,’ he says. ‘Maybe you should let this business go. Let some other fellow look into it, by all means – maybe your Mr Bourke?’
Harkin feels his anger rise up once more but this time he allows it to dissipate. It might be Driscoll doing his best to put him off from pursuing the matter, or it might be honest concern. Driscoll, after all, didn’t know that Maud was in the car. Unless, of course, Maud had always intended to return that night, perhaps to meet with Driscoll. He muses on this as the horse’s gait increases to a brisk trot, almost as though Driscoll is keen for the journey to be over.
‘Did you arrange a meeting with Commandant Egan?’ Harkin asks. ‘If Bourke has a motor car, we could go wherever he feels comfortable meeting us.’
Unless, of course, Bourke has orders to take Harkin directly back to Dublin.
But even if he does, Harkin thinks he can persuade him to stay for a day or two.
‘Are you sure you’re in a fit state?’
‘With Bourke driving I wouldn’t be exerting myself too much.’
Driscoll looks across at him.
‘The likelihood is the commandant will be somewhere near the gap on the other side of town.’ He points to the far side of the bay, where there is a break in the hills. ‘If that’s the case, there’s a village called Ballycourt. If you go into O’Brien’s beside the church and ask for a bag of sugar and three candles, they’ll point you in the right direction. I’ll let you know in the morning if there is a change of plan.’
They are approaching Moira’s guest house and Driscoll begins to slow the horse down. Harkin wonders if he intends to drop him at the gate. He examines the gentle slope of the drive and decides he will be firm.
‘Take me to the door, Driscoll,’ he says. ‘There’s no need to wait around, Bourke will drive me back.’
CHAPTER 26
H
arkin is sitting beside the fireplace in the residents’ sitting room, watching as Vincent Bourke wedges his considerable frame into a leather armchair and reaches for the tea the young maid, Mary, has brought him. The cup seems small in Bourke’s big hand and Harkin watches as he places the saucer delicately on his knee and then, little finger extended, raises the cup to his lips.
‘Lovely,’ he says, smiling up at Mary. ‘This is as fine a cup of tea as I have had this many a day.’
His blue eyes twinkle as he speaks and Harkin is not surprised to see Mary blush in response. For a moment, she seems to lose control of her feet, which point first one way, then the other, as she tries to decide what to do with herself.
‘Would you like some cake?’ she says, inspiration striking.
‘I would love some cake,’ Bourke says, grinning at her. ‘Cake would be delightful. Wouldn’t you love some cake, Mr Harkin?’
‘Some cake would be good,’ Harkin agrees, giving Bourke a warning look.
Mary, to his surprise, snorts but it seems to be a sound of pleasure, rather than disapproval. She walks quickly from the room, leaving them alone.
‘A lovely girl,’ Bourke says. ‘If I’d known there were so many attractive women down here, I’d have come sooner, orders or no orders.’
‘But you do have orders.’
‘I do,’ Bourke says. ‘I certainly do.’
‘And they are?’
‘To place myself at your disposal. If you want to fuck off out of here, I’m your man. If you want to stay around, I’m also your man. It’s up to you, but the boss wants you to make your decision based on some new information that has come to his attention.’
Bourke speaks with a studied eloquence, without altering his deep Dublin accent one iota, although there is an undercurrent of mischievousness.
Which is strange, Harkin thinks, because Vincent Bourke is a very serious individual when it comes down to it.
‘Tell me.’
‘Firstly, your Major Vane is indeed known to us. He is known to you also, but as Mr Tomkins. Does that name ring a bell?’
It does. Tomkins is a relatively new arrival, coming to the attention of the intelligence directorate in the late summer of the previous year. He’d made his presence felt before the shooting of a sizeable number of British intelligence officers the previous November, and he had avoided their fate largely because the intelligence directorate had still not, at that point, known where he was living or what he looked like. After the November operation, Tomkins – or rather, Vane – had become more cautious still, remaining in the background when it came to active British operations. Nonetheless, the intelligence directorate had obtained two physical descriptions of him from those who had been in his company. Harkin remembers them now, and while they aren’t an exact match to Vane, he curses himself for not making the connection earlier.
‘That is an interesting piece of information,’ he says.
‘Isn’t it, though? Here’s another thing. He’s currently in charge of Paddy Malone’s interrogation. No sign, as yet, that Malone has told him anything, but the boss is taking steps to limit the damage if he does. Which is one of the reasons I’m here. To look after you.’
‘I see.’ It makes sense. Malone is currently a minor loss. But if Malone gives up Harkin or any of the other senior members of the intelligence directorate or, indeed, the boss, then the damage would be significant.
‘And there’s more. I’m only passing on the message, so don’t be at me for more details because I don’t have them.’ Bourke pauses, as if trying to recall the exact words that he’s been told. ‘The boss says there are signs the British are aware of a shipment, which he says you know about. He says if Vane is snooping around down here, then the chances are it’s to do with the shipment. He says you can tell me about it if you think you need to but you’ll know best.’
This is a development that poses all sorts of questions, but if Bourke says h
e doesn’t have the answers then there is no point asking them aloud.
‘Did the boss have any thoughts as to how we should proceed?’
Bourke nods gravely, although his twinkle has returned.
‘He said if I got a chance I should shoot the fucker. Unless you had any objections.’
Most of Harkin’s colleagues are idealists and, like Harkin himself, suffer the emotional and psychological strain of their clandestine war. Vincent Bourke is different. He doesn’t have qualms or nerves the way the rest of them do. If anything, he takes enjoyment from the whole business. He’s pleasant company – charming, even – and a good friend, but he’s also a killer. If Bourke wasn’t fighting this war, he would find another one.
‘I’d better tell you what the current situation is, then,’ Harkin says, and begins to fill Bourke in on what he knows about Maud’s death and the surrounding circumstances. After some hesitation, he tells Bourke about the shipment, without mentioning Sir John Prendeville’s involvement, but revealing that Maud knew about it and was involved. When he finishes, Bourke sits back and closes his eyes for a moment. When he speaks he is to the point.
‘So you think Driscoll plugged her?’
‘It’s possible. But it doesn’t entirely make sense. I mean, why would he kill her? What reason might he have?’
‘She was up the duff.’
‘I haven’t read all the letters, but they could be from years ago, and there was nothing in the one I read about a pregnancy.’
‘Were there envelopes? Postmarks? Have you compared the writing?’
All good points.
‘That’s one of the things. There were no envelopes and no postmarks, which could mean they were hand-delivered. That might point to Driscoll but, no, I haven’t compared the handwriting yet.’
‘You say Maud Prendeville had something to do with the arms shipment. Did Driscoll?’
